And if his version of events was accurate, they knew the key to removing the spell and returning him to his regular appearance—an act of selflessness, or becoming a more understanding, generous person. She wasn’t sure exactly how to achieve that, but certainly there were things they could try.
Dougal, however, didn’t seem nearly as interested in the idea of venturing out into the world as she’d hoped, and she supposed she understood why. The last time he’d revealed his markings to someone other than herself, he’d been threatened and ostracized.
She didn’t want to believe the same thing would happen to him in this day and age, but she couldn’t be certain. And it was possible that even if he weren’t reviled for his affliction, he might be enough of an oddity for scientists and the media to turn his life into a nightmare of flashbulbs and needle pricks.
So maybe he was right. Maybe it was better that he stay here, at least for now. They could discuss other options later.
At the moment, his attention was focused on more important things, anyway…like making love to her as frequently and creatively as possible.
She’d had her share of lovers in the past, and would have thought that a few of those encounters qualified as being quite risqué. Now she realized that for all her experiences, before meeting Dougal, she might as well have been a nun.
He did things to her body that made her eyes roll back in her head, took her to heights she hadn’t known existed, took her in ways she hadn’t thought possible.
After reviving enough from their energetic bout against the wall to go at it again, he’d turned her over onto her hands and knees and taken her from behind until she was panting for release. He’d sunk between her legs and consumed her like a man dying of thirst who’d finally found an oasis. And when she recovered, she was only too happy to return the favor.
As much as she’d enjoyed every touch of his hands and mouth and body, and every earth-shattering orgasm he’d wrung from her, she thought she enjoyed having him in her mouth even more. She liked his taste and smell, the unique texture of his long, hot arousal against her tongue. She liked leaning over him, being able to explore his body with her hands while she watched his face contort with pleasure.
Her hands smoothed over his flat abdomen, narrow hips, and muscled thighs, slipping between to toy with the soft, twin globes of his testicles. The extra caress drove him crazy, causing his hips to cant off the floor in an effort to get deeper, closer to the pleasure she was bringing him.
Hiding a grin, she licked the plum-shaped tip like a lollipop, around and around in one direction, then back around and around in the other. His moans grew lower and more frequent, the thrust of his pelvis more powerful. And she moved with him, rolling, riding, never letting her concentration waver until she’d brought him off as thoroughly and violently as possible.
Crawling back up the length of his amazing body, she smiled and kissed his cheek before nestling close to his side. He tucked his arm around her, using his other hand to brush a stray strand of hair away from her face.
“Mo gaol,” he murmured, pressing his lips to her forehead.
“What language is that?” she asked. The tips of her fingers drifted through the light sprinkling of hair covering his chest, circling his nipples and counting the lines of his rib cage while she rested her head on his shoulder. “You’ve used it before, but it’s not one I recognize. Is it Scottish?”
“Aye,” he answered in a low voice, his brogue slightly more pronounced than usual. “Scottish Gaelic. It’s what my family spoke most often when I was growing up.”
“And what does that mean—what you just said?”
He hesitated a moment, and she felt him tense beneath her. She was about to lift her head and look at him, to find out what the problem was, when he answered.
“My love,” he told her, tone rough with emotion. “Mo gaol means my love.”
A wide grin spread across her face while a blossom of happiness she’d never felt before unfurled in her chest. At any other time, with any other man, it might feel as though things were happening too fast. But here, now, she knew it was absolutely right. Thanks to the stories she’d heard about Dougal since childhood and the dreams she’d been having about him on a regular basis since adulthood, she felt as though she’d known him forever.
“Is that what I am?” she asked. “Your love?”
She held her breath, waiting for his reply, a thousand thoughts racing through her brain depending on his response.
“Yes,” he said finally in a near whisper, “I think perhaps you are.”
At that, she inhaled sharply, tipping her head back to meet his eyes. Her own felt suspiciously damp. “I think you are, too. Mo gaol.”
With a growl, he swooped in to capture her lips, kissing her with more than passion, more than desire…this kiss was filled with love.
A noise from the upper floor of the keep woke her some time later. From the second guttering candle on the small tabletop, she suspected hours had passed while she and Dougal had slept the sleep of the exhausted and thoroughly sated.
The sound came again, and she sat up, Dougal doing the same beside her as they both became aware that someone else was in the castle with them.
He rose, grabbing his clothes and quickly starting to dress. Scrambling across the dirt-covered floor, she found her own jeans and t-shirt and wiggled into them.
Dougal headed for the stairwell, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm.
“Wait,” she said in a hushed whisper. “Let me go up and see who it is. I’ll try to get rid of them so you won’t be seen.”
He hesitated, and she felt the rigid muscles of his forearm twitch beneath her fingers. But then he nodded, and she started forward.
She jogged silently up the stairs, wanting to catch whoever was snooping around before they reached the back of the keep and discovered Dougal’s secret lair.
Near the front entrance of the castle, a man stood by her things, leaning on a gnarled walking stick as he surveyed her sleeping bag, camera bag, and the other assorted things she’d brought for her stay at Castle MacKay. He was older, with white hair and a full white beard. His worn and patched work pants were held up by a pair of red suspenders over a plaid flannel shirt.
The ball of dread that had been sitting so heavy in her stomach broke up and disappeared as she recognized him as one of the patrons of the small cafe in town where she’d stopped before making the rest of the trek to the keep. Mr. Abernethy, she thought was his name.
“Hello,” she said, stepping forward, her fingers buried casually in the back pockets of her jeans.
Mr. Abernethy’s head came up, and he smiled, backlit by the bright morning sunshine of another beautiful Scottish summer morning. As he turned, she noticed the walking stick wasn’t the only thing he was holding. He also had a long, dangerous-looking shotgun tucked under his other arm.
She swallowed hard, stopping in her tracks.
“Hi, there,” he said, his accent similar to Dougal’s. “I came to see how you were doing up here in this place all alone.”
“Oh, I’m fine,” she told him. She forced her lips to curve, her shoulders to relax in an “I’m not hiding anything” pose. “Taking a lot of pictures, making a lot of notes. It’s beautiful up here.”
“Good, good.”
When he started forward, still scanning the place with blatant curiosity, she quickly did the same, moving closer to the front of the keep to keep him from getting near the back. She had no doubt Dougal was standing at the top of the stairs, just on the other side of the opening that led to his underground room, and she wanted to keep Mr. Abernethy as far away from that spot as possible.
“They say this castle is haunted, did ye know that?”